


A Dagger of the Mind

by unpopcultural



Series: This Thing of Darkness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst out the ying-yang, Canon Compliant, Don't worry; John and Sherlock won't die, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rating May Change, Sequel, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopcultural/pseuds/unpopcultural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are in trouble. Moriarty is back, Fiona is missing, and Mycroft is in too deep.</p><p>Sequel to "A Love Song of Sorts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Serpent Under It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: some blood

Their first day together out of hospital was not supposed to be like this.

When Sherlock had permitted himself to fantasize about being with John in any romantic sense,  it had never been like this. Even though his mind had concocted thousands of variations, none of his imaginings included a despondent John who wouldn't talk to him.

Mycroft's agents had escorted them to an inn about an hour outside of London, their next safehouse. Sherlock didn't bother asking what Mycroft was going to do with everyone else; at the moment, all he cared about was John, who had locked himself in the bathroom with the shower running an hour ago. Sherlock sat on the bed, waiting for John to come out, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

Sherlock slipped into his Mind Palace with ease. Something in here could help him find Moriarty, find Fiona. There had to be something, somewhere, that could fix this mess that was hurting John.

He was back at Baker Street. Mind Palace Mycroft was there with his umbrella, standing in front of the fireplace.

"We can't keep hiding," Sherlock told Mycroft. "Not when he has Fiona. I should look for him."

Mind Palace Mycroft smiled. "But isn't that what he wants you to do? Aren't you playing into his hand, little brother?"

Sherlock clenched his fists. "It's the only way to get her back! No thanks to you."

Mind Palace Molly appeared, wearing her lab coat and goggles. "Surely you're more clever than that, Sherlock. Aren't you supposed to be the smartest man alive?"

Mycroft laughed uproariously at that.

"Shut up, shut up," Sherlock hissed. He turned to Molly. "We have to trick him."

"Except he's pretty clever himself," she said. She was holding an apple. "Have you ever been able to outsmart him, Sherlock?" The apple had symbols carved in it: a straight line, a roundish shape, a horseshoe. _IOU_. Obvious.

"Have you ever been able to outsmart _anybody_?" It was Mary now, standing in the doorway. She was wearing the purple dress he'd seen her in when they'd first met, but now the dress was covered in blood. As she spoke, a trickle of blood ran down from the top of her head, down her face. It was puddling on the floor underneath her. "For a genius, you are fooled very easily." She smiled. Her teeth were stained red.

Irene Adler sat on the arm of one of the chairs in a scarlet dress, her legs crossed. "What does Moriarty want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought. "He wants a worthy adversary. He wants me to be smart so he feels superior if he beats me."

Irene shook her head. "But there's more to it than that, Sherlock Holmes, isn't there? He already beat you once." She fluttered her lashes seductively. "What does Jim Moriarty _want_?"

_Suddenly I'm Mister Sex._

"Do you remember Jim, from IT?" Molly asked suddenly. Sherlock turned to look at her. She was now wearing her blue Christmas dress with the silver earrings. "I can't believe he was gay the whole time. I sure know how to choose them, don't I?" She laughed weakly. She was wearing red lipstick.

_Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?_

"He wasn't gay," Sherlock said. "He was just..."

Sherlock stopped. John had appeared in his beige cable-knit sweater. Sherlock approached him, wanted to embrace him, had to remind himself that this John was not real.

"I love you, Sherlock," Mind Palace John said.

Warmth flooded Sherlock's heart. "I love you."

The apple Molly had been holding rolled across the floor, stopping when it hit Sherlock's shoe. He bent down to pick it up.

_IOU.  
_

"You're better than this, Mr. Holmes," said The Woman, who was completely naked now. Sherlock frowned at her. "Sherlock, surely you can see what's going on."

"I..." Sherlock hesitated.

 _I will burn the heart out of you_.

"Think, Sherlock, think!" Mycroft urged.

Mary laughed.

 _IOU_.

"Sherlock," John said. "Please. For me."

Sherlock stared at the apple. It looked different. Something-- Ah, yes! The "O," it was different. There was a small dip in the top of the circle.

 _I love you_.

 

"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace to find a shivering, damp John staring at him from the end of the bed.

"Sherlock?" John was wearing just a towel, and Sherlock could see the gory mess of his newest bullet wound seeping through the bandage. His other bullet wound was a raised scar just centimeters away. "Did you figure something out?"

Sherlock felt nauseous. "I... maybe. I think we need to change your bandages."

John pushed his head back to look at his shoulder. "Oh. Yeah."

Sherlock had John sit on the toilet seat. Sherlock peeled off the soiled cotton, applied antibiotic ointment with a cotton ball--John winced--and unpeeled a large bandage to cover the wound, securing it with medical tape. They didn't say anything during the process.

"You're good now," Sherlock said, patting the edges of the bandage to make sure it would stick. "Do you need a painkiller?"

John looked down at the floor, shaking his head. The skin under his eyes looked bruised, and there was a layer of stubble on his cheeks. "I don't know what to do, Sherlock." He took one of Sherlock's hands and held it between his own. "Please fix this."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John's forehead. "I'm going to fix it, John. I'm going to make everything right."

_IOU._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the ideas in this fic were inspired by the lovely tumblr meta community, especially loudest-subtext-in-television's M Theory.


	2. Desire Is Got without Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nought's had, all's spent  
> Where our desire is got without content.  
> 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy  
> Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy."  
> -William Shakespeare, Macbeth (3.2)

Neither of them ate that day. Sherlock urged John to at least drink some tea, keep up his strength, but John ignored him and stared sullenly out the window of their room at the inn, clutching the teddy bear from Harry to his chest. Harry had called John earlier and it had been an awful scene, with John shouting accusations at his sister, blaming her for Fiona's kidnapping. Now, however, he held on to the bear like it was a life jacket.

Perhaps it would have been funny to some impartial onlooker the way the two men, new lovers for all intents and purposes, were sitting fully clothed on the bed without speaking or even looking at each other, one of them holding a stuffed animal. But Sherlock didn't feel much like laughing, and John looked as if he were constantly on the cusp of either tears or a fit of rage.

"I think I had a revelation in my Mind Palace," Sherlock said after a considerable length of silence between them. His back was resting on the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

John turned to him tiredly. "What was it?"

Sherlock hesitated. "It's going to sound strange. Very strange." He picked at a hangnail. "And I don't want you to get jealous."

John made a face like he'd just smelled something bad. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Sherlock shifted so he was sitting cross-legged, facing John. "I've been thinking that although Mycroft's explanation for Moriarty's obsession with me certainly sounds valid, it does not seem to adequately express what is truly happening. Like The Woman said, Moriarty beat me once. He said so himself on the top of Bart's; he said it had been easy to beat me. Why not move on to bigger and better things if I was such a disappointment?"

John gaped at Sherlock as if he had just sprouted wings. "Are you on drugs? The Woman, Sherlock? Irene Adler is dead."

Sherlock waved dismissively. "Mind Palace Irene. And the real one is not actually dead, but that's beside the point."

John shook his head in disbelief. "Whatever. Go on."

"It came to me when I was looking at the apple Molly was holding. In my Mind Palace, that is."

"Yeah, I get that now."

"And I came to this conclusion... I don't know why I didn't think of it before, perhaps because it is so absurd. But John... I think that James Moriarty might be attracted to me." Once the words were out, Sherlock cringed, not wanting to see John's expression.

John laughed. He actually laughed. "You think," he said, "You think that Moriarty is in _love_ with you?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "No, John, not in love. Despite what the apple said literally, I understand the machinations of my Mind Palace, and what is real and what is metaphor. Moriarty is incapable of feeling love, of that I am certain. But sexual attraction? Perhaps." Sherlock realized that he was doing a poor job of explaining himself, but he reasoned that John only needed the big picture. Sherlock could focus on the details.

"You think Moriarty wants to have sex with you." John was frowning. "Sherlock, that's mad."

Sherlock placed his hands on each one of John's shoulders and kneeled in front of him on the bed. "The banter, the sexual innuendo. I never realized the signs before because my data was corrupt. You had always done the same thing, and you had so obviously asserted your heterosexuality."

"Sherlock," John flushed.

"Oh, yes, I knew The Woman was interested, but she was rather obvious about it, and I certainly wasn't expecting to see it in Moriarty. The gay disguise when he was Jim from IT only further concealed the truth. It's so obvious, John! I can't believe I didn't see it before."

"Sherlock," said John harshly. "He tried to kill you! That's not what people do when they're attracted to other people!"

Sherlock glanced pointedly at John's shoulder. "Some people have a twisted idea of attraction, John. That is why he must be stopped."

John collapsed onto his back, wincing slightly. "Okay, then, Sherlock. If this is all true, then does it change anything? He still has Fiona. What are you going to do, _seduce_ him into giving her up?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I need to talk to Mycroft."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, confession time: I have never written anything that could warrant an "E" rating on here, but I'm considering it. Tell me in the comments if I should try to branch out, or if you'd prefer that I keep the "M" rating. Granted, "M" can still be sexy, just not, you know, balls in your face.
> 
>  
> 
> All of the balls.


	3. I Am in Blood

Mycroft Holmes's mobile phone rang, and the typically collected man jumped. He glanced around his study, hoping Anthea wasn't watching the CCTV security feed. He had the suspicion that she'd hooked it up to her phone so she could keep an eye on him at all times.

He looked down at the screen before answering and cleared his throat. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft. Why haven't you called?"

"Because I have nothing to say," Mycroft replied, a bit too sharply. He picked up his coffee mug and sipped. "I know you're upset, but I am doing the best I can."

"Yes, well, I wanted to run something by you," Sherlock continued, interrupting the last part of Mycroft's response. "On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that Moriarty finds me sexually desirable?"

_No._

Mycroft choked on his own saliva. The room began to spin around him.

"I know it's disgusting, but answer me truthfully." Sherlock's voice sounded very far away.

Mycroft gasped for breath. "Sherlock! What makes you say that?"

Sherlock began a convoluted discourse on a scene from his Mind Palace that somehow involved apples and Molly Hooper. Mycroft barely listened. "Come now, Mycroft, surely it should be obvious to you, too. I do suppose that you're not as experienced with social interaction as I am, but still."

Mycroft felt perspiration beading on his forehead. "And you _are_ the expert in social interaction? Sherlock, you'd have to drug someone to get him or her to partake in a relationship with you." His words were harsher than he intended, but his mind felt as if it were being crushed. He needed to stall for time.

There was a short inhale. In a very small voice, Sherlock said, "I managed to convince John. No drugs. Not this time."

Mycroft collapsed into his desk chair. "Are you saying what I think you're saying? This is not good, Sherlock."

"What do you mean, it's not good?"

"I mean that it's bad!"

"Why? Why am I not allowed to be happy, Mycroft?" Sherlock exploded. "First, I get sent to my death because I got rid of the scum of the earth, and now I can't even be in love with someone? You were perfectly fine with letting me go to Eastern Europe and die, weren't you, Mycroft? Because you didn't care about Sherrinford and you sure as hell don't care about me!"

"Sherlock, I was the one who stopped you from going!" Mycroft exclaimed. He kneaded his forehead and spoke quietly. "Oh, Sherlock. I can't do this anymore. This has gotten incredibly out of hand. Terribly, terribly out of hand."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock hissed.

"I told him to come back, Sherlock. It was the only way to save you." Mycroft's voice was tired, defeated. "All this time, he promised he wouldn't hurt you, but if you and John are truly together... He won't stand for it, Sherlock."

There was a deathly silence on the other end.

"Sherlock, I only did it to protect you," Mycroft pleaded. "If I worked for him, he wouldn't hurt you. He made me that promise."

Sherlock finally spoke, his voice brittle. "How long?"

"Sherlock--"

"How _long_?" his brother shouted. "Tell me!"

Mycroft felt as if his head was weighted down. "Since the beginning."

He heard a catch in Sherlock's voice, perhaps a sob. "You disgust me."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said hastily. "Please, listen. Before you hang up. Please give me one second. I need you to take off the pin I gave you. It's a tracking device. Destroy it, bury it, do whatever you can. Now that you know, he'll be after us both, and John, too."

"Mycroft--"

"Sherlock... I love you. You may not believe me, but you are my brother and I love you. Please know that. I may have failed Sherrinford, but I don't want to fail you, too. I love you so very much." He swallowed. "Destroy the pin, Sherlock, then run away as far as you can."

With tears in his eyes, Mycroft hung up and faced the door of his study. He could already hear shouts from the other side.

 

 


	4. Our Fears Do Make Us Traitors

Trigger Warning: Reference to non-con, but not something that actually happens in the chapter.

 

John had heard enough of the phone call to understand. Sherlock stood unmoving in the middle of the room, just staring and blinking, his phone hanging limply from his hand.

John was about to say something when Sherlock scrabbled at his jacket and ripped off the lapel pin, tearing the fabric. He spun around in a circle, then rushed into the bathroom. John heard the toilet flush a moment later.

"We have to go, John." Sherlock's voice was thick with unshed tears. "Get your things together. Hurry."

It took John only a minute to pack away his belongings, as they hadn't really had a chance to unpack.

Sherlock glared at John's wheeled suitcase. "That won't do. Take only what you can run with." Sherlock had stuffed the contents of the first-aid kit into his coat pockets.

John sighed, wanting to protest leaving all their clothes at the hotel, but from his time in the army he understood the advantages of traveling light. He swallowed when he set down the plastic bag full of cards and gifts from his time in hospital. He shoved his keys and wallet in his pocket, made sure he was holding his gun, then stood up.

"All right," he told Sherlock. "I've got the essentials."

Sherlock nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Let's go."

 

"We need to go back to London," said John, panting. They'd run madly away from the inn for about thirty minutes in a completely random direction, or at least John thought it was random, and now they stood in the middle of an alleyway between two tall brick office buildings. John's shoulder was aching fiercely, and he was pretty sure he'd opened up some stitches.

Sherlock clasped his hands over his knees, huffing. "London? That's... incredibly dangerous, John."

"If that's where Fiona is, then we're going back!"

Sherlock straightened up. He smoothed his hair with his hand. "Okay. You're right. We go back to London."

"Thank you." John hesitated. "Do you have any plans?"

Sherlock's mouth was a thin line. He spread his arms out helplessly and shook his head. "I don't know, John. Everything Mycroft told me was a lie. There's only one thing I can think of doing."

"Stop it. I'm not letting you give yourself up, Sherlock," John said. "Not when I finally have you."

Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his. Sherlock's fingers were cold. "I could be the bait, John. Lure him in, make him give us Fiona back. I could do things... if I had to." He choked, looking away. His scarf flapped up in the wind, concealing his face for a moment.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. His chest ached. "No. _No._ I could never let that happen. Have you even ever..."

Sherlock shook his head, his mouth trembling. "But it's just transport, John."

John clasped Sherlock to his body, then reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down to his. Sherlock's lips tasted salty, like tears, with an irony tinge like blood.

"Your body is more than just transport, Sherlock," John whispered, running his hands up and down Sherlock's back. "Do you think I could really let you... do _that_? With _him_? Against your will?"

Sherlock sighed, his blue eyes shining. "I want you to promise me something, John."

John took a step back from Sherlock so he could look into his face. "That depends on the promise."

"If it comes that you have to choose between Fiona and me, promise that you'll choose Fiona."

John shook his head. "That's not going to happen, Sherlock. Stop it. Just stop it."

"Please, John. Promise me."

John clutched at Sherlock's coat. "Fine," he whispered. "I promise."


	5. Toil and Trouble

They sat shivering in the alleyway, passing a cigarette back and forth between them. John hadn't smoked since uni, but hell... life was short. Though not so short that we wasn't regretting sitting directly on the snow; the seat of his jeans was damp and cold.

"If we go back to London, we should do so inconspicuously," Sherlock murmured, taking a drag. Flakes of snow were speckling his dark curls. "We are easily recognizable."

"Er, are we?" John asked. He glanced down at his clothes: an olive-colored coat, a plaid shirt, a vest, jeans. "I don't think I stand out."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I do. And we've both been in the papers, and on your _blog_. I think a change in appearance might be a good idea." He rose to his feet and smashed the cigarette under his shoe. He removed his coat. "We should switch outfits."

John snorted. "That's going to be too big on me, Sherlock. And there's no way I'm fitting into your trousers."

Sherlock sighed. "Come on, John, just do it." He removed his suit jacket and began unbuttoning his black silk shirt. John couldn't help gaping as Sherlock revealed an expanse of pale skin. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's. " _Will_ you get a move on, John?"

"We're going to get hypothermia," John muttered, but began undressing as well. "And do you really think you in a pair of jeans is going to fool Moriarty?"

Sherlock just handed John his shirt and jacket. John attempted to button the shirt over his chest, but it wouldn't stretch that far. Damn Sherlock and his thin body. Fortunately, John was wearing an undershirt, so he just kept the shirt unbuttoned. The jacket, on the other hand, just wasn't going to work.

Sherlock looked like a child playing dress-up in John's shirt and vest. Sherlock slid on the olive coat and pulled the hood over his head. John had to admit that if he had passed by Sherlock on the street like this, he may not have recognized him.

"With the hood, you look the same as when I found you in the drug den," John remarked, a tad accusingly.

"Let's not talk about that." Sherlock muttered. He had started to unzip his pants.

"I'm serious, Sherlock, I won't be able to wear those," John said, though he was a bit eager for Sherlock to continue. _Not the time for that, John._

Sherlock peered intently at John's waistline. "I suppose not," he admitted. "I guess I'll have to make do with this."

John pulled on Sherlock's black coat, which engulfed him.  "I look absolutely ridiculous. We're going to attract more attention like this than before."

"Nonsense, you look wonderful." Sherlock grabbed his suit jacket back from John and folded it, slipping it under his arm. "All right. Now our next question is how shall we return to London?"

 

On the train, they did attract some curious stares.

"I told you," John whispered, nodding toward an elderly couple sitting a few rows up from them. "That white-haired woman looked back at us and said something to her husband."

Sherlock's face had been pressed against the window; it left a smudge when he moved it to peer at the couple. "That's not her husband. And she has no right to judge us, John. She works at a whorehouse."

"What? She's a prostitute?" John gasped.

"No, she just runs it." Sherlock turned and fixed his gaze out the window.

"Oh." John crossed his arms high on his chest and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Sherlock from his coat. It was an interesting smell, like chemicals, sweat and coffee, with a hint of tobacco. John loved it. It smelled like Baker Street, like home. Enveloped in the scent, he drifted off to sleep without intending to.

Sherlock shook him awake when they had arrived in London. "Come on, John."

 

They huddled together on a bench in the train station a few minutes later.

"Where to now, Sherlock?" John asked wearily.

Sherlock tapped his fingers nervously on his knees. "I'm thinking."

John yawned. It was getting late; the sun had set during their train ride. He couldn't believe it was this morning that he'd woken up in hospital next to Sherlock, his heart thrilled with the reciprocation of love. Thinking Fiona was safe with Harry. It felt like years ago. He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring intently into the air. Was this how their life would be from now on, endless running and hiding? Betrayals and tears? It couldn't be. It just couldn't. Not after all they'd gone through to get to each other. John wasn't sure how the logistics of their new life together would work, but he _knew_ they had the potential to be happy, he and Sherlock and Fiona, if only they were given the chance.

"Let's go talk to Lestrade," Sherlock said finally. "His house is within walking distance of here, and we could always use his help."

John raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock Holmes, asking for help?"

Sherlock stood and extended a hand to John. "Especially yours, John Watson."

 


	6. Fire Burn

Mycroft Holmes awoke with a start. Gray concrete walls, exposed rafters, vertical support beams in a row: he was in the middle of a warehouse of some sort, sitting on a metal folding chair. His head throbbed, and he could feel dried blood on his temple. When he tried reaching up to touch the wound, he realized that his hands were bound behind him. His feet were tied together, too, by the feel of it, and there was a length of rope around his torso and the chair.

_Think. Use your brain; it is your most valuable asset._

Mycroft took a deep breath and smothered any emotions. When he exhaled, his mind was clear, logical. _Good._ He visually investigated his surroundings. No one was there, but he noticed a small camera mounted on one of the support beams, focused directly on him. He had expected that. He had not expected the set of speakers mounted on another beam, but he registered the information and moved on. There were two pairs of doors, painted green; one pair to his left, and another straight ahead. There might be more behind him; he craned his neck backward to check, but a stab of pain went through his head. For now, he would assume the worst: that there were only two routes of escape, but three entrances for anyone who might come to check on him.

He tested the strength of the restraint on his wrists. It felt like plastic, perhaps an industrial zip-tie, not easily snapped. The rope around his chest would make it difficult for him to raise his arms if he attempted to break the wrist restraint. Perhaps if he took off his shoes, he could slide out of whatever was around his ankles... but no. It was tied too tightly for any hope of that.

"Look whoooo's awake!" a voice boomed from the speakers. It echoed off the walls again and again, filling Mycroft's ears with the familiar sound of James Moriarty.

Mycroft didn't respond, but his eyes flickered around the room, searching for movement. Was Moriarty here, in the warehouse? Mycroft didn't think so, but it was impossible to know for sure.

"You know, Mycroft, you look awfully familiar, trying to think your way out of this. Now where did I see that before?" Moriarty's lilting voice bounced around the room. "Oh, yes, you look exactly like Sherlock did on the top of Bart's. Hmm. Sibling resemblance, I guess."

Mycroft stared up at the camera impassively.

"Some people probably think that I wanted Sherlock to die, but those are the ordinary ones. You and I, Mycroft, we know that's not the case. I was thrilled to hear of Sherlock's gallant return. I _am_ so appreciative you kept in touch all that time. Those two years were quite lonely for both of us, weren't they? We both need our Sherlock."

"I suppose _you_ might," Mycroft said airily. "I, however, am not prone to dependency."

"Oh, stop the lying, Mycroft." Moriarty's voice mockingly raised in pitch: "'Oh, Jim, pleeease, I'll do anything so long as you don't hurt my little brother!'" His voice now lowered, even deeper than before. "But you _didn't_ do everything I asked, Mycroft. You just didn't."

Mycroft shook his head. "I did everything within my power. You were asking me to do the impossible."

"YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED JOHN WATSON!" Moriarty howled with a screech of microphone feedback. "THAT MISERABLE PET OF HIS! But no, you just let him _worm_ himself into Sherlock's heart, ruining my perfect little sociopath."

Rage began to bubble in the pit of Mycroft's stomach. "Sherlock does not belong to you," he muttered.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

"Sherlock does _not_ belong to you!" Mycroft repeated, louder. "He never has, and he never will."

"Urgh, disgusting," Moriarty spat. "Your protective big brother act is sickening. Well, fine, Mycroft. You were fun to play with for a while, but soon you will have outlived your usefulness."

Mycroft turned as one of the doors to his left opened. He heard the click of high heels as a familiar brunette woman entered the room from what looked to be a hallway.

"Hi, Mike," she said, raising a camera to her face. "Say cheese."


	7. Come, Thick Night

"You know, I'm worried about Sherlock and John," Greg said, spearing an asparagus with his fork. "I'm sure everything is fine, but it's bothering me." He set the fork down with the uneaten asparagus still on it.

Molly sipped her wine before responding, "Me, too."

It was true; Molly was worried. She just hadn't mentioned it because she didn't want to mention Sherlock in general, wanted to prove to Greg that she was most certainly over the consulting detective. The real beginning of the end was when she saw John's head pasted on the Vitruvian Man in Sherlock's file. It took a while for it to sink in that Sherlock's romantic affections would always lie elsewhere, but it made her feel a little better knowing that it wasn't necessarily her personality that turned Sherlock off. And besides, now she had Greg. He was quite different from her usual type, but maybe she needed a change.

"I still can't believe they just left hospital like that. John should've been in there for a few days more at _least._ That might be something Sherlock would do, but John's a bloody doctor," Greg said. "I tried calling Sherlock's brother to figure out where the hell the two of them went, but no answer. Figures."

"And you definitely don't think that Jim... that Moriarty is back, do you?" Molly asked. "Sherlock is never usually wrong."

"Dunno." Greg shrugged. "Didn't you see his corpse? Even if he _was_ back, wouldn't something have happened by now? He's sure taking his sweet time being a supervillain, if that's what he's after. "

Molly frowned, folding her napkin. "What if that's not what he's after?"

Greg stood and began collecting empty dishes. "It's probably nothing to worry about. I bet Sherlock and John are just out snogging somewhere." He wagged his eyebrows.

"Greg! John's wife just died!" Molly chided.

Greg shook his head and dumped the dishes in the sink. "Believe me, Molly, if you had been there, you would've seen that there was no love lost between them. She fucking shot him! He fucking shot her! It was a bloodbath."

"I suppose so." She stood to help him clean up. "But couldn't they have snogged in hospital?"

Greg grinned. "I'll snog you in hospital."

"That doesn't even make sense!" Molly said, but allowed Greg to swoop down and give her a peck on the lips.

At that moment, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, bloody hell," Greg muttered. "It's too late for evangelists."

Molly smiled to herself as Greg stormed out to answer the door.

"Speak of the devil!" she heard Greg shout. "Is it Halloween? What the hell are you two wearing?"

 

John and Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa in Greg's living room as if they'd been walking for days. As worried as she had been about John and Sherlock, Molly couldn't help but laugh at their attire. John looked exceedingly uncomfortable in Sherlock's tight shirt, and Sherlock was swimming in John's vest.

Her smile disappeared when they explained what had happened to Fiona. "Oh, God," she whispered. "The poor thing."

Greg brought in cups of tea for everyone and set them on the coffee table. No one touched them. "Why didn't you call the police?" he asked. "We could have helped you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The same police who refuse to believe that Moriarty has returned?"

Greg sighed. "Sherlock, mate... I just don't know." He exchanged a worried glance with Molly. "After that broadcast, there wasn't a peep from him, or anyone pretending to be him."

"Moriarty texted my... Mary, before she died," John said, looking pale. "It had to have been him, Greg. No one else talks like that."

Greg frowned. "Oh yeah, I do remember seeing those. But that could've been anyone, John. It's easy enough to replicate the way someone talks, innit?"

"If it means anything," Molly said, looking back at Sherlock and John, "I believe you."

Sherlock nodded slowly, seriously. "It does. Thank you, Molly."

"If Moriarty isn't back, then who do you think took Fiona?" John asked Greg desperately. "Mycroft said it was Moriarty's people."

At the mention of his brother's name, Sherlock scowled. "Mycroft. He's working for Moriarty. Care to explain that, D.I. Lestrade?"

"He's _what_?" Greg exclaimed.

Sherlock looked ill. "Yes, I was equally disturbed."

Greg stood up and put his hands on his head. "Bloody hell."

Molly looked up at him fiercely. " _Greg_. Come on."

Greg sat down in an armchair and covered his face. "Damn it, bloody damn it. I just didn't want it to be true, you know?"

"Neither do any of us," Molly said. "But since it looks like it is, we have to do something."

Sherlock stared intently at John, who was rapidly becoming paler and paler. "First things first," Sherlock said. "We need to change your bandages, John."

"Hmm?" John said weakly. "Oh, yeah, I guess so."

"Gavin, where is your bathroom?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "You know my name, Sherlock. And it's around the hallway, to the right." The two men stood, John leaning on Sherlock for support, and disappeared around the corner.

Greg sighed heavily. "Well, at least I was right about them shagging."


	8. The Dunnest Smoke of Hell

The exhaustion had hit John all at once, and of course Sherlock had noticed right away. The tenderness in Sherlock's eyes as he cleaned the bullet wound made John want to cry. No one had ever looked at John like that before--not Sholto, not any of his past girlfriends, not even Mary. Had Sherlock always looked at him like that? If so, how the hell had he never noticed?

Sherlock bit his lip once he had finished patching John up. "We need you to eat."

Not "you need to eat," or "I need you to eat," but "we." It was "we" now.

"Okay," John said weakly.

"George," Sherlock called from the bathroom. "Can we have some of your food?"

"George? Now you're just being stupid," Lestrade replied. "But yeah, I'll make you something."

Lestrade scrambled some eggs while Sherlock led John to the table and made him sit.

"My legs still function, Sherlock," John said. "You don't have to drag me everywhere."

Sherlock looked so hurt by this that John whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm just not feeling well."

Molly took a seat across from them. She was wearing an orange blouse and had her hair down. Her expression was serious but her cheeks had a glow that John wasn't used to seeing. "Did they prescribe you anything before you left hospital, John?"

"Yeah, some painkillers and antibiotics," John said. "Don't worry, Sherlock's being a good nurse."

Sherlock scoffed at that, but his hand reached for John's under the table, their fingers slotting together.

Greg divided the eggs onto two plates. "I hope you know that you two are welcome to spend the night here." He nodded at Molly. "And of course you can, too."

"Thanks, Greg," John said. "We really appreciate it. Sorry about showing up like this."

"Not a problem," Lestrade said with a dismissive wave, sliding the plates in front of John and Sherlock. "Just let me know if you need anything, like toothbrushes or pajamas."

Sherlock stared at the eggs as if they were an alien substance. "Perhaps toothbrushes," he said. "Pajamas won't be necessary. We don't mind sleeping naked."

John choked on a mouthful. "Sherlock!" They hadn't even slept together, and here Sherlock was, making everybody think... Oh, hell. What did it matter anymore?

Molly's eyes were as wide as the plates. Lestrade was chuckling to himself as he wiped down the oven. Sherlock played blissfully innocent, even taking a bite of the eggs.

John hadn't realized how ravenous he was until there was a plate in front of him that he didn't remember cleaning. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't do well with skipping meals.

"So I was trying to figure out a course of action," Lestrade said, but stopped when Sherlock's phone buzzed from his pocket.

Sherlock squinted at the phone, unaware that everyone was staring at him. "It's... It's from Mycroft."

"Open it," John urged. He leaned over so that he could see the screen.

He wished he hadn't.

There was a photo attachment of Mycroft Holmes, tied to a chair, blood drying on his forehead. The only text in the message was a number: "24."

Sherlock made an odd gurgling sound. His hands shook.

The phone vibrated again. With bile rising in his throat, John watched as Sherlock opened the second message.

A photo of Fiona, sleeping peacefully on a white blanket. The same number: "24."

John had to run to the bathroom to vomit. He leaned over the toilet, his hands on either side, heaving. He heard voices from the kitchen but couldn't understand what they were saying. There was a humming in his ears that muffled everything else.

"No," he sobbed. "No, no, no."

He panted, head hanging over the toilet, but nothing else came up. He sat back on his haunches and wept. His hearing seemed to come back in a rush, and now everything was too loud.

"What does the number mean, though?" he heard Lestrade ask.

"Hours, I assume," Sherlock replied. He sounded calm. _Why did he sound so calm?_ If John wasn't crying on the bathroom floor, he'd go back in there and throttle Sherlock. He hiccuped. No, he wouldn't. John reached up and flushed the toilet from his position on the ground, but didn't move to get up.

"Is John okay?" Molly asked timidly.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed. A moment later, Sherlock stormed into the bathroom and sank down to his knees next to him.

John grasped handfuls of Sherlock's vest-- _his_ vest--and pulled him close so that he was sitting in between Sherlock's legs. He rested his head on Sherlock's chest and shook with sobs. Sherlock's hands found their way around John's body and he was whispering to John, soothing sounds, though John wasn't quite sure what any of them meant. Without looking up, John cupped one of his hands around the detective's face. His cheeks were damp, too.

"Let me do it," Sherlock whispered. It may have been seconds later or hours later; John didn't know.

"Never," John hissed, his face still buried in the vest.

Sherlock tilted John's head up with a finger so that they were staring eye-to-eye. "John, please. Let me do it."

John shook his head violently. His words came out in gasps. "Stop it, Sherlock. No. You're not giving yourself up. Stop being... bloody stupid."

"John, I need you to tell me that it's okay," Sherlock pleaded. "I can't do it unless you tell me it's okay."

"Well, I won't." John hesitated. "Not... not unless you let me come with you."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. "Why would you do that, John? What if something happened to both of us? Where would Fiona go?"

"What if you aren't able to do it by yourself?" John countered. "Maybe you need my help. Maybe we need to go together."

Sherlock sat back and blinked. "Moriarty will kill you."

"He'll kill _you_."

"Not if I do what he wants."

"And how long will you do that for, Sherlock? Forever?" John demanded. "Because as soon as you stop, he'll kill you, too." He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of Sherlock's dress shirt. "That's my offer, Sherlock. Either I go with you, or you don't go at all."

"John." Sherlock fretted with the hem of the vest. "I know you don't realize this, but the depths of my feelings for you are... profound. If you were hurt because of me..." He trailed off.

"I love you, too," John said. "And your mess is my mess." Unlike when he'd made a similar statement to Mary, now he actually meant it.

Sherlock exhaled. He looked at the ground. "All right. We go together."


	9. Who Could Refrain, That Had a Heart to Love?

Sherlock waited in the bathroom for John to clean his face of tears and vomit. They emerged to find Lestrade and Molly huddled at the kitchen table with their cups of tea. Sherlock noted their wide eyes, creased foreheads. Classic signs of worry.

"Greg, we're going after him," John said, rubbing the dampness from his chin. "We'll need your help, if you're willing."

Lestrade nodded vigorously. "What do you need?"

"We need someone to track us when we go to see Moriarty, as well as be on hand to rescue Mycroft and Fiona," Sherlock explained. "I will contact Moriarty via Mycroft's number and arrange a meeting. I will not tell him that anyone else is coming with me, and John will follow behind without revealing himself. It is doubtful that Moriarty, Mycroft, and Fiona are all in the same location, so I will need to convince Moriarty to let them go. I will offer myself as collateral, but hopefully..." He glanced at John. "Hopefully, John will be able to shoot Moriarty while I have him distracted."

Lestrade gaped. " _That's_ your plan, Sherlock? 'Hopefully John will rescue me?' Aren't you supposed to be a genius?"

Sherlock glared at him. "I'm under a lot of pressure!" However, he knew Lestrade was right. At best, it was a weak plan. At worst, it was a suicide mission.

Lestrade shook his head. "All right, then. I'll contact some people from Scotland Yard and arrange a hostage rescue team." He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe we can come up with something a little more concrete by tomorrow morning."

John gasped. "Tomorrow? There was a countdown! We need to go _tonight_."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips and looked at John sympathetically. "Let's be reasonable, John. You're exhausted, Sherlock is exhausted, I still need to call people, and leaving right now would be a bloody poor decision."

"I'm not going to be able to sleep when my daughter is being held captive by a madman!" John shouted. His face reddened; his nostrils flared.

Molly offered a suggestion: "What if Sherlock messages Mycroft's number now to arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning? That way, we have time to plan, but we can let them know that we are willing to negotiate."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked at John. "Okay?"

John's face was squeezed tight, but he nodded. "Fine."

Sherlock swallowed. His fingers trembled when he typed his brother's name. _Tomorrow at 8AM._

The response was almost immediate: _Sherlock! I can't wait! ;) I will message you the coordinates in the morning!_

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. "He didn't give me the address yet."

"We'll figure it out," Lestrade said. He pointed upstairs. "You two need to get some sleep before you keel over. That's an order. Take the spare room across from the hallway closet."

John was turning an angry red again, but Sherlock gently pulled at his sleeve. "Come on, John."

John relented, allowing Sherlock to lead him upstairs and into the spare bedroom. It was roomier than the one at Sally's, with a spacious bed and a rocking chair in the corner. The walls were white and unadorned.

John sat on the bed forlornly, staring into nothing. Sherlock sat down next to him and took his hand. "John?"

No response.

"John?"

"Why do we have to wait, Sherlock?" John's voice cracked.

"You heard what Lestrade said. Besides, you're recovering from a gunshot wound. You need to rest or you won't be any use tomorrow."

John looked up at him swiftly. Sherlock knew his words had been harsh, but at least John was looking at him now.

John sighed. "Fine." The circles under his eyes were pronounced. He pulled off his shoes and tossed them to the ground. "Goodnight." He flopped onto his back without getting under the covers, still wearing his jeans and Sherlock's shirt, . His eyes were open.

Sherlock tentatively lay down next to him on his side, so he could look at John. He could see John's eyes flicker toward him every so often.

"John," Sherlock said.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Can I kiss you?"

John hissed in a breath. It was a moment before he responded: "Please."

Sherlock leaned over and pressed his mouth to John's. John pushed himself up on his shoulders, one hand weaving into Sherlock's hair. They stayed like that for a while, lips caressing each other, until Sherlock realized that John's shoulder was sore. Sherlock broke apart breathlessly and lay on his back. "Come here."

John moved to lie on top of Sherlock. Their mouths found each other again, bodies pressed together, and it was so beautiful Sherlock almost sobbed.

"We could have had this for years," John whispered against Sherlock's lips. "Why did we wait so long?"

"Because we're idiots," Sherlock replied, and broke into a teary smile.

"Ah. Right." John rested his head in Sherlock's neck, breathing softly.

"John?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes. He wasn't even sure if John was awake still.

"Yes?" John said sleepily.

Sherlock hesitated. "Never mind."

John lifted up his head. "Sherlock, you know you can tell me anything."

"John." He swallowed. "If this is our last night together..."

"Don't you say that," John admonished. "Sherlock, don't you say that."

"Even so," Sherlock continued. He noticed that whenever he breathed, John would move slightly on top of him, like he was riding a gentle wave. "I wondered if we could..."

John frowned. "What?"

Sherlock's face became very warm.

He saw John's eyes widened as the shorter man understood. "Oh..."

Sherlock turned his face away. "Never mind. I misjudged."

"Misjudged? Oh, God, no," John breathed. Sherlock turned back to him. John's eyes were full of warmth. "But Sherlock... you've never..."

"I want it to be with you," Sherlock said. "I've wanted it for ages. You're the only person in the world whom I've ever loved, John. Besides, if things go badly tomorrow, I don't want _him_ to..." He swallowed again. "I don't want him to be the first one... or the only one." He delicately brushed aside some tears that were trickling down John's cheek.

"That's not going to happen," John whispered. "You know that I won't let it happen, Sherlock."

"Then let's not think about tomorrow," Sherlock said. "Let's just care about right now."

John pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Yes."

They undressed slowly, pulling off the clothes they'd borrowed from each other. It was a bit surreal, Sherlock thought, like a dream come to life. Despite all the time they'd spent together, they'd never seen each other completely naked, and their reactions to it were a mixture of awkwardness and admiration.

"Probably not as hot as other guys you could get," John said jokingly, though Sherlock could sense his self-consciousness.

Sherlock stared, his eyes damp. "No. You're perfect."

John's smile slipped, and he began kissing Sherlock with renewed vigor, skin pressing against skin.

A few minutes later: "How, er, how are we going to do this?" John was flushed pink and breathing heavily, a layer of sweat coating his chest.

"Any way. Every way."

"So it's okay if I..."

"It's more than okay."

John took a deep breath. "Okay."

There was some pain, Sherlock had expected that, but it did not compare to the bliss, bliss that was more than just physical. He loved John, and John loved him, and they were perhaps walking straight to their deaths tomorrow, but they would be together, they would be--Oh! He stopped being able to think.

Afterward, he wrapped John in his arms and held him close, whispering into his ear until John slept. Then, Sherlock fell into the deepest sleep he'd ever entered without the use of drugs, clutching tight to his lifeline.

 


	10. The Be-All and the End-All

It was still dark outside when John opened his eyes, feeling fully rested for the first time in weeks. For a moment he blinked, unsure of where he was, but then he saw a sleeping (and very naked) Sherlock sprawled on his back across the other half of the bed, one of his ankles thrown over John's calf. Oh, yes. That had happened. John realized that he was sticky with the hand lotion they had used (for lack of a better alternative), and Sherlock probably was, too. He hoped Greg washed the sheets regularly.

They had left the bedside lamp on. John sat up and clicked it off. He peered out the slowly lightening sky. John ventured that it was probably around six in the morning. Two hours until the confrontation, then. He inhaled deeply and clutched his knees to his chest, thinking of Fiona. Were they feeding her? Changing her nappies? She had looked content in the photo, but... He screwed his eyes shut for a second, willing the thoughts away. He wouldn't be able to concentrate today if he kept this up.

John's movements made Sherlock mumble and roll over, and for the first time, John noticed the mass of scars running across the detective's back. John smothered his gasp of surprise. How had he never seen those? He thought back to when they were undressing in the alleyway the day before, Sherlock keeping his chest facing John. Sherlock had been on his back last night, so John hadn't been able to see the scars. Damn it. When had that happened? During Sherlock's years away? It must have been.

John tentatively reached a finger out and traced one of the scars. It was pink and slightly raised, running from Sherlock's shoulder blade to the small of his back. Sherlock twitched and then shifted so he was on his side facing John. His eyes opened. "John? What are you doing?"

"Sorry to wake you." He bit his lip. "When did you get all those scars?"

"Oh." Sherlock reached for the blanket that they had kicked to the foot of the bed and wrapped it around himself. "It doesn't matter."

"When you were... gone?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, his pale eyes moving up and down John's body.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know. I... I've been selfish."

"No." Sherlock shrugged as best he could lying down. "Certain things had to be done." He sat up, still cocooned in the blanket, his hair sticking up at all angles. "What time is it?"

John checked Sherlock's phone on the nightstand. "5:50." He shuffled so that he was side to side with Sherlock and nodded toward the blanket. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock flipped open part of the blanket so that John could scoot in next to him. John tucked it around them so that only their heads were exposed.

"I was afraid last night was a dream," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm glad it wasn't."

"I'm glad, too." John rubbed circles on Sherlock's back, feeling the hills and valleys of the scars under his fingertips.

"Any thoughts on today?" John asked after a long moment of silence.

John felt Sherlock's shoulders move up and down. "Several thoughts. Many of them not helpful."

"But some are?"

"Perhaps."

"Sherlock, you have to tell me what you're thinking," John said. "No more secrets."

Sherlock grunted. "I'm not trying to keep secrets, John. I just don't want you to think less of me. My mental faculties have been failing me lately."

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock." John regretted his choice of word, but pressed on. "You've been under stress, that's all."

"But John," Sherlock said. "I let Moriarty trick me on the roof. I thought he was dead. I... I didn't see Mary for what she was until it was too late. I didn't allow myself to see that Mycroft's actions were not his own. These are unforgivable errors, John. Other than you, my mind is the most important thing I have, and I have been fooled. So many times."

"Sherlock," John said gently, "If I had been in your place, I would have been dead a long time ago. You're still the brilliant man you've always been. And today, we need you, and you're going to be amazing, you hear me?

Sherlock sighed. "John, it's not that I haven't thought of any plans. I have devised a plethora of them. The problem is that none of my plans have allowed for a realistic conclusion in which the four of us survive. My own self-sacrifice would be the easiest, you see, because then there would be little difficulty in freeing Mycroft and Fiona, and you would most likely make it out alive. But I know that is less than appealing to you--and to me, in all honesty--so then I came up with more plans. But in these scenarios we are able to rescue Fiona but not Mycroft, or Mycroft but not Fiona, or..." He swallowed. "Or you die. So you see, John, none of these plans are of any use. I might as well be as stupid as Anderson."

John felt tendrils of anxiety curling in his stomach like snakes, but he tried to hide this, although he supposed Sherlock would be able to tell anyway. "Let's talk to Lestrade. Maybe he thought of something."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if he doubted Lestrade was capable of dressing himself, but unwrapped himself from the blanket and slid out of bed.

"We'll have to wear the same clothes as yesterday," John murmured.

Sherlock shrugged and pulled on the silk shirt John had been wearing. "I like it. It smells like you."

John couldn't help taking a moment to watch Sherlock buttoning the shirt.

"John, I don't think Lestrade will appreciate it if you walk into his kitchen naked."

"Hmm? Oh, right. Yes." John hurried to dress. He winced at the feeling of pulling on a shirt over his sweaty torso. "We need showers, Sherlock. We're disgusting."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "No time."

"Let me make you a promise, then," John said. "Tonight, we will go back to Baker Street, and we can shower together."

Sherlock smirked, but it didn't hide the fear in his eyes. "All right, John. I'll hold you to it."


	11. Cauldron Bubble

Janine Hawkins was a good person, thank you very much. Lately, she had been repeating that to herself: _I am a good person, I am a good person, I am a damn good person._ It was her mantra. It wasn't her fault that she constantly was placed in bad situations, was it?

The baby in her arms let out a soft coo, and Janine tickled her under the chin. Definitely nothing wrong with this, was there? She was good to the baby; she fed her, bathed her, changed her nappies. It almost sounded noble when you thought about it: Here was Janine, watching the baby of her recently deceased friend whose husband was in hospital. Yes, that sounded nice. It wasn't Janine's fault that the baby had been taken against the father's will. She hadn't _asked_ anybody to do that.

Janine thought back on her own husband, Sam Hawkins, and their short-lived marriage. He was dead now, but when he'd been alive, she knew he would have been a rubbish father. Who was Janine to say that John wouldn't be a rubbish father as well? Maybe Janine was doing the baby a favor.

She sat down on the bed of the hotel room where she'd been staying and looked at her reflection in the mirror, still holding the baby.

_Oh God what if I'm not what if I'm not a good person what then_

But there was no resisting Jim Moriarty. They had shared a womb, and since then there had been some undeniable tether between them. Jim had always been on the odd side, a little rebellious, a little angry, but Janine could never say no to him. When it was children, it was, "Will you steal that toy for me?" As teenagers, "Help me get back at the teacher for putting me in detention."

And as adults?

"Get a job with Charles Magnussen."

"Mary Morstan will try to befriend you. Let her."

"Keep your eye on Sherlock Holmes. Stir up some tension between him and John Watson."

"I'm busy; pretend to be me and go text Mycroft Holmes."

"Janine, take this baby."

Janine shuddered to think of what Jim might have done if she hadn't been around to care for the infant. Granted, he needed the baby alive, at least for now. Janine wasn't stupid; she knew what was going on. But maybe, she mused, maybe if Jim got what he wanted, he would let her take care of the baby. Janine would be a good mother, especially now that she had her own house in Sussex. She and the baby could go live there, maybe, and Jim could... Jim would... Jim would do what Jim always did.

There was a knock at the door. Janine ignored it.

It continued, more persistent. Janine stood up warily and lined up her eye with the peep hole. There was an older woman outside, a lady with white hair. She was wearing brown trousers and an emerald-colored sweater with deep pockets. A red suitcase sat on the ground beside her.

"Who is it?" Janine called out, still not opening the door.

The woman looked up. "Oh, hello! It seems I'm a bit confused. The hotel told me that this was _my_ room, but my key doesn't work, and clearly it's occupied."

"Oh. Yes," Janine replied. "Er, sorry."

The woman didn't leave. "I'm sorry to bother you, dear, but would you mind helping me read the number on the key? My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Janine appraised the woman. She didn't look like anyone in disguise, that much was certain. 

"Dear?" the woman asked.

Janine cracked open the door. "Yes, sorry. Come in." When the woman walked in, Janine noted that she was taller in real life than she had looked through the door.

The woman rummaged around in her pockets. "Now where did I put that key?"

Janine waited impatiently, the baby still nestled in the crook of her arm. She was about to tell the woman to talk to the front desk when the woman's eyes widened.

"There it is!" the woman exclaimed, but from her pocket she did not produce a key, but a handgun.

The woman transformed from confused old lady to terrifying figure in seconds, eyes narrowed, mouth thinned into a line. "Now give me the baby, you bitch, or I will blow your head off to the other side of the room."

Janine tried to scream, but the older woman pressed a hand to Janine's mouth.

"Give me the baby."

Janine shook. "Here, here! Take her!" Her words were muffled. She thrust the infant at the woman. Without looking down at the baby, the woman scooped her up, her gun never wavering.

"You might want to pretend that I knocked you out and stole her while you were unconscious," the white-haired woman said airily. "But that's entirely your own decision. Thank you for your cooperation!"

She winked and returned the gun to her pocket, backing out of the room with a smile on her face.

Janine's hands shook when she closed the door behind the woman.

She sank onto her knees. _Jim will skin me alive_.


	12. Screw Your Courage to the Sticking Place

Sherlock had struggled this morning, but by seven o'clock he was feeling sharp, oh yes. It may have helped that he'd borrowed a few nicotine patches from Lestrade's bathroom cupboard and downed a cup of coffee. Sherlock could feel the drugs coursing through his system, bringing all of his senses into high alert. The game _was_ on. No sentiment from Sherlock Holmes today; today he would be cold and calculating.

_At least until John drags you into the shower at Baker Street._

No. He must stop that. Not now. Now he would be cold. Calculating. Emotionless. Yes. _Yes._ The game was on, indeed.

 

In the kitchen, Sherlock allowed Lestrade to pin a round, silver tracking device underneath his shirt collar. Lestrade had been awake all night, busy with phone calls and a trip to Scotland Yard, and his trembling hands gave away his exhaustion. Molly had attempted to stay awake, but she was dozing on the couch now, an arm flung over her face.

"This'll let us know where you are at all times," Lestrade said, smoothing down the collar. "There. You can hardly see it."

Sherlock peered down at his neck. "Hardly is not good enough."

"Well, hardly is all we've got, Sherlock." Lestrade took a step back and crossed his arms. "Even if someone notices it, it could just be a button or something."

"Fine." Sherlock produced his mobile phone from his pocket and held it out to Lestrade. "I spent a few minutes analyzing the photo of Mycroft in order to deduce where exactly he is based on the apparent size of the room, as well as the condition and color of the paint on the walls. It is a warehouse, obviously. However, online photos of London warehouses are appallingly sparse, and I was unable to determine an exact location. I was, however, able to subtract a few from the list, warehouses with which I am familiar that do not match the one in the photo, as well as ones that are so new that they could not possibly look so run-down. I'll text you the list so your officers can try to find him, but I don't believe it will be easy without information from Moriarty."

Lestrade nodded. "All right. I'll send half of my people to do that, and half of them to trail you. I would have some of them look for the baby, but there was nothing to go on from the picture..."

Sherlock adjusted his black jacket over his shirt. "I have enlisted the help of someone to track down Fiona. She promised to update me periodically with any news. I haven't received any yet, but that doesn't mean anything, as it's still early."

Lestrade frowned. "Wait, what? Who? Why are you just telling me this now?"

Sherlock sighed. "Well, I didn't think to contact her until an hour ago. I hadn't wanted to involve her, but it became exceedingly obvious that we would need her help, and John approved."

"Sherlock, who?"

"My mother," Sherlock said simply. "She's trained in this sort of thing."

Lestrade looked positively baffled. "How... Sherlock... How old is your mother?"

Sherlock perched himself on a chair and ignored the question. "I came to realize that Moriarty would not want to care for a baby himself, but he would need to keep Fiona alive to use her as leverage. My mother is investigating the whereabouts of a handful of people who may be confidantes of Moriarty, ones who may have Fiona. Right now, my mother should be at the home of one Sebastian Moran, the son of that Lord Moran who went to prison for the attempted bombing. At eight, she will be investigating a certain member of the Waters family, Derek, who has possible ties to Moriarty's agents in Asia. At nine, she will search for Janine Hawkins--you remember her from John's wedding? She was Mary's maid of honor, and had connections to Magnussen, as did Moriarty. At ten, my mother will, regrettably, try to contact Mycroft's personal assistant, who goes by Anthea but whose real name is Rebecca Smith. While I do not believe Anthea is involved, I also did not believe that Mycroft would be, so it seems wise to make sure." He took a breath. "At eleven--"

"Okay, Sherlock, I get the idea," Lestrade cut in. "That's wonderful what your mum is doing and I wish her the best of luck. But, Sherlock, we need to plan for the worst case scenario, right? And we may not have until eleven o'clock."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "I understand."

John entered the kitchen, a dab of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. "Did he send you the address yet?"

Sherlock shook his head. "'Coordinates' is what he said, not 'address.' But regardless... no." He turned to Lestrade. "Geoff, tell John that he no longer needs to come with me because you have plenty of officers to do that. Right?"

Lestrade sighed and looked at John. "Listen, mate, he's dead-set on having you stay here."

"Sherlock, you promised," John exclaimed. "I'm going with you."

"It's going to be dangerous," Sherlock said.

"Has that ever stopped me before?" John demanded. "Sherlock, I have faith in your mum, but as long as my daughter is out there, I need to be doing something to get her back. I am _not_ waiting here."

Sherlock crossed his arms and sank down in his chair. "At least promise to stay with the police."

John tilted his head and glared at Sherlock. "It would be too noticeable to have a great gaggle of people trailing right behind you. If I want to stay close, I'll have to be by myself. Listen, Sherlock, they'll be just a bit behind me, okay?"

Sherlock groaned. "Fine. Lestrade, can you please outfit John with a tracking device, too?"

"Yeah," Lestrade assented.

Sherlock stared into his phone, both willing it to vibrate and hoping that it would not. He tuned out John and Lestrade's conversation and took a brief trip to his Mind Palace.

He was in Mycroft's study. Mycroft was sitting at the desk, looking younger, perhaps in his late teens. His dark hair was fuller, his skin smoother.

"Are you sure you're capable of doing this, little brother?" Mind Palace Mycroft said. He stood and walked to where Sherlock was standing.

Sherlock nodded. He noted that he was looking up at Mycroft, as if he were still a child.

"It's going to be difficult," Mycroft warned in a lilting voice. He bent down so he was eye-level with Sherlock. "Very difficult."

"I always was the smart one," Sherlock lied, his voice coming out higher than he was expecting.

Mycroft laughed, more kindheartedly than usual. "It's true. You were." Mycroft patted the top of Sherlock's head.

The entire room seemed to vibrate suddenly, as if they were in a snow globe someone had shaken. Furniture toppled sideways onto the plush carpet; photos in their frames crashed to the ground.

Mycroft's face blurred. "That's your cue, brother dear."

Sherlock yanked himself back to reality and turned his phone toward him. "He sent the coordinates."

Lestrade nodded and got out his own phone to make a call. John hovered near Sherlock's shoulder.

"You ready?" John asked, resting a hand on the small of Sherlock's back.

"This time, I will be."


	13. Wash This Blood Clean

Sherlock scoffed at the second message from Mycroft's phone: _Come alone._

A message from his mother soon followed: _Sebastian Moran not at home. Does not have baby. I'm off to Waters' house._

Sherlock had long since left Lestrade's and was marching swiftly toward his destination. He pulled his coat up to his chin and lifted his collar, sneaking a look behind him as he did so. John was supposedly trailing him, but Sherlock didn't see him anywhere, let alone Lestrade's officers. Passers-by had their heads bowed to the wind, pushing forward briskly without looking at Sherlock. He suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. _Alone is good. Alone protects me... But not really. Not anymore._

 _51.5033° N, 0.1197° W_. When Sherlock had read the coordinates, he had known immediately where he was going: the London Eye. It would be closed for maintenance until the sixteenth, so it was likely to be more deserted than usual. It was also snowing again, which seemed to repel a great deal of tourists. Still, Sherlock felt uneasy. Why would Moriarty have picked such a public, well-known location, even if it was the off-season? He almost stopped walking for a moment when an explanation crossed his mind. Ah... Moriarty thought he was clever, did he?

 

Sherlock neared the wheel and checked his phone for the time. Six minutes until eight. He tilted his head back and peered up at the top seats, hanging empty in the cold air. The spokes of the wheel sliced the cloudy silver sky into triangles.

His phone vibrated: _The pier._

Sherlock pocketed the phone. He had expected that. Before advancing to the pier, he quickly glanced behind him. No John, though a handful of people were walking about the area. Sherlock should have felt grateful--he hadn't wanted John there anyway--yet John's apparent absence made his stomach clench. No, John _had_ to be nearby. He was in the military; he'd obviously be skilled with this sort of thing, and he'd had plenty of practice following Sherlock, hadn't he?

Sherlock tightened his coat against his body and raised his chin, striding toward the pier with determination. He stepped onto it and felt his pulse quicken. Beams crossed over his head, making him feel like a caged animal, dragging up old memories that Sherlock thought he had deleted long ago. He grasped the railing and pressed on, refusing to look behind him, though his mind chanted John's name.

He only had to wait for a minute. Just as he had anticipated, a white and orange ferry with the words LONDON EYE RIVER CRUISE slowly approached the cement dock. It drifted lazily, as if it had nowhere to be, coming to a gentle stop that contrasted with the violently sloshing Thames. Sherlock approached the ferry with his hands in his pockets, waiting for a sign of movement from inside the boat.

Sherlock kept his face expressionless when a man emerged from the entryway. He was a tall, unfamiliar figure, his ginger hair done up in dreadlocks. Over his navy suit he wore an orange life vest, and a gaudy pair of red sunglasses hid his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes, is it?" the man asked. He had a high, chirpy voice that made Sherlock want to shudder.

"Of course it is," Sherlock hissed.

"Well, hop on." The man stepped aside to make room for Sherlock to board.

"Give me a good reason to."

The ginger man groaned theatrically and called to someone behind him, "Oi! He's being difficult!"

The person to whom he was speaking must have responded non-verbally, for the ginger man shrugged and turned back to Sherlock. "Get on the boat, or we'll kill your brother. How's that?"

Sherlock's grip on the phone in his pocket tightened. "How do I know you won't just kill me once I get on the boat?" He attempted to peer inside the ferry. "Allow me to talk to Moriarty."

The ginger man shook his head. "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. Do you think he's an idiot? He won't expose himself like that. There could be, you know..." He pointed to various locations in the sky. "Snipers." He paused and glanced back inside the ferry. "Yeah, yeah, okay," he said to someone inside.

"I came to negotiate, not to present myself to you like a belated Christmas gift," Sherlock snapped. "Now let me talk to him."

The ginger man rolled his eyes. Even though Sherlock couldn't see his actual eyes, the movement was extended to the man's entire head.

"Sorry to do this, mate."

Sherlock tried to jump aside when the man produced a taser from his pocket, but Sherlock felt something latch onto his neck. Sherlock's entire body pulsated, and he collapsed. Every one of his muscles seemed to clench and unclench in unison. The ginger man gripped Sherlock's underarms and dragged him onto the ferry. Through the prickling haze, his face pressed to the filthy floor, Sherlock heard someone shout his name.

"John?" Sherlock croaked.

The ginger man apparently had a gun, for Sherlock heard him firing wildly. The floor under them lurched, and the boat peeled away from the dock. The gunshots ceased, and the ginger man began to drag Sherlock further into the ferry, up a short flight of stairs. Sherlock's back bounced against the steps, his body still twitching.

Sherlock was in a carpeted interior room of the ferry, a multitude of plush brown chairs surrounding him. His skin was on fire, but he attempted to pull himself to a sitting position.

"Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock," said the voice from his nightmares. Sherlock turned and saw a pair of shined black Oxfords. "Why don't you stay where you belong?"

Sherlock looked up into Moriarty's face. The short man was wearing his typical Westwood suit, but he had slipped an orange life jacket over it. It gave the whole scene a surreal aspect. Other than that, he looked exactly as he had on the roof of Bart's.

"Sebastian, why don't you go get us some refreshments?" Moriarty said to the ginger man, who nodded and exited the room.

Moriarty kneeled so that his face was centimeters away from Sherlock's. His warm breath smelled of garlic and spearmint gum. "Hello, old friend. Still staying alive?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------  
> Well roll me up and call me a burrito! The London Eye just so happened to be closed when my story takes place! I didn't plan for that. But realism is good, right guys?
> 
> By the way, if anyone happens to notice any jarring Americanisms in the story, feel free to let me know. (Like John saying "Howdy, ya'll." Just kidding. I don't say that.) My stories have definitely not been Brit-picked... or beta-ed. Come to think of it, I might revise this when I actually have some free time in the summer.
> 
> As a last note, my cat just ate a Cheez-it that I dropped on the floor. It was hilarious.


	14. When the Hurly-Burly's Done

_John crouched down on the pier, a bullet dent in the cement near his feet. His shoulder throbbed, but he was otherwise unharmed. John clambered to his feet to see that the ferry had careened from the dock, rolling along the Thames as fast as such a craft could move, which honestly wasn't very fast._

 

"Hello, old friend. Still staying alive?"

Moriarty's face was too close to Sherlock's. Sherlock could see every strand of facial hair on his chin, smell his spearmint gun, _taste_ the reek of his cologne.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "By whose definition of living? Yours seems to be flawed."

Moriarty laughed at this. He stood up and took a seat in one of the brown chairs, crossing his legs so one of the Oxfords dangled in front of him. "Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?"

Sherlock was finally able to sit up, though the pins-and-needles sensation persisted. "What, resort to kidnapping? Of course I won't ask," he spat, climbing to his feet.

Moriarty smiled and chomped gleefully on his gum. "You know me so well that you understand me, Sherlock? I was hoping for that."

 

_John dialed Lestrade and shouted into the phone, "Hurry, get your men to the Thames near the Eye right now. Have them surround the ferry."_

_"Already on it," Lestrade said, then muttered, "What an idiotic choice for a getaway vehicle."_

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "No, I do not understand, because there is nothing to understand. There is no rationale in psychopathy. Your actions are the product of a diseased mind and nothing more."

Moriarty pouted, his brown eyes widening dolefully. "Sherlock, Sherlock, don't be so ordinary. I'm not a reasonless madman, and _you know it_ , my dear. Now tell me... Why do I have John Watson's baby and your brother? _I_ already know that _you_ know the answer."

"Revenge?" Sherlock offered, narrowing his eyes, closing in on the chair where Moriarty sat.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Revenge for what? Seems that I've got everything I could have wanted." His head tilted slightly as his eyes scanned Sherlock's body.

 

_John hung up on Lestrade and ran back up the pier, his breath puffing out before him. The ferry was still in his line of sight. John began sprinting along the bank of the Thames in Sherlock's direction.He pushed past a small bunch of tourists who were pointing toward the ferry and snapping photos. One of the women shouted at John in Chinese when he ran past her camera. John could tell that his stitches had pulled open even further, but he ignored the pain and continued his frantic chase after the boat._

Sherlock sprung forward and found his hands wrapped around Moriarty's neck, pressing down hard. Moriarty emitted a surprised choke and aimed a kick directly to Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock bent forward but refused to release his grip until he felt a pair of strong hands on his back that yanked him away from Moriarty and threw him to the floor.

The ginger man named Sebastian (Moran, perhaps?) was leaning over Moriarty, yet was still looking sidelong in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock lay panting on the floor, his hands clenched.

Moriarty pushed Sebastian aside and lurched to his feet. There were angry red marks around his neck in the shape of Sherlock's fingers.

"Oh ho ho, Sherlock Holmes," he croaked. "For that, I'm going to make you watch your brother die."

Moriarty strode to one of the tables and picked up a silver laptop. Sebastian pointed a gun toward Sherlock while Moriarty tapped on the keys. A moment later, Moriarty turned the laptop so that Sherlock could see the screen.

 

_Uniformed officers approached the Thames on either side. The ferry continued its rather lazy journey through the river. John was nearing the boat, snow and cold stinging his eyes, his hands frozen to his gun.  
_

 

There was a video feed of Mycroft sitting on a chair in a tiny room, definitely not in the warehouse from the photo. This looked more like a doctor's office, clinical and white. Mycroft's hands were bound in front of him, and there was a piece of cloth wrapped around his eyes. His chin rested on his chest as if he were asleep.

"No," Sherlock moaned, reaching one hand toward the laptop.

"Sebastian," Moriarty exclaimed. "It seems like we are about to have some guests here. Why don't you and the others give them a proper greeting?" He took Sebastian's gun and aimed it at Sherlock's forehead. "I've got things handled here."

"Yes, sir!" Sebastian grinned and disappeared upstairs, calling out, "Oi, everyone! Time to play!"

Without his eyes leaving Sherlock, Moriarty bent toward the laptop and pressed a button. He spoke to the screen: "Hello, Mycroft!"

Onscreen, Mycroft twitched and lifted his head.

"That's right!" Moriarty cawed, smiling manically. "Guess who I've got with me, Mycroft? That's ri-ight! Your little brother!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice was tinny through the computer.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called out. "Mycroft, are you okay?"

Suddenly, it sounded as if it were raining bullets outside. Sherlock heard Sebastian whooping.

 

_About a dozen people emerged on the top deck of the ferry. There were men and women, some in dress clothes and some in ratty jeans. All wore orange life vests and were heavily armed. The group began to shoot at the police officers who lined the banks. The officers retaliated with their own gunfire, John with a few shots of his own. One of the officers collapsed, and one of the men on the boat fell back with a spray of blood._

 

"Sherlock, don't worry." Mycroft's trembling voice belied his words.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and bent over the laptop, ignoring Moriarty's closeness and his damned smile. "Mycroft, where are you?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily, attempting to shrug. "But listen very closely to me."

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, isn't this sweet? Last words between the Ice Man and the Virgin." He sat down and propped up his feet on a neighboring table. The gun never left his hand.

"Sherlock, I _am_ sorry about Sherrinford," Mycroft said, his head pointed upward, toward the camera. "I want you to understand how sorry I am, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes burned. "Mycroft, stop being stupid and figure out how to get out of there."

"Sherlock, if he kills me, know that I love you dearly."

Sherlock would have smashed the laptop if it wasn't the only link to his brother. "Stop it, Mycroft!"

Moriarty continued watching in deep amusement, his head rolling back and forth from Sherlock to the screen. "Well, this is just beautiful!" He suddenly frowned. "Yet, to be honest, it's terribly ordinary. I would have expected less trite sentiment from _you_ , Mycroft. At least Sherlock is being interesting."

Sherlock glared at Moriarty. "Mycroft, I love you, too," he said without looking at the screen.

Moriarty returned the glare. "Hilarious, Sherlock, hilarious." He called out, "Mycroft, he doesn't mean it! He's just trying to play my game."

Sherlock shouted, "Don't listen to him, Mycroft!

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "All right, Sherlock. This game is getting boring now. Say what you want to say to Mycroft, then let me kill him.... You hear that, Mikey? Are you ready?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted. "I-I'll do anything."

Moriarty's grin stretched as far as the Cheshire Cat's. "I was so hoping you'd say that." He sighed. "Oh, but you're a little too late, Sherlock. Do you seriously think that I intended for either of us to make it out of here alive?" He used one of his feet to tap Sherlock gently in the chest. "You think I have a plan to get out of this little boat without getting all shot up?" He chuckled.

"But... You wanted me here," Sherlock said, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Why?"

Moriarty stood and brushed off his suit with one hand. "I don't want used goods, Sherlock. And since my little nickname for you doesn't actually seem apt anymore, you are now, well, a bit boring. So... I don't want you anymore." He shrugged dramatically. "But I figured, Sherlock, at least I could have some fun with you before we go!"

Moriarty pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number without looking at the keys. He smiled at Sherlock as he waited. "Hello! It's Jim. Listen, I need you to go into the room where we're keeping Mycroft Holmes and shoot him in the head. Yes. Yep. Sure, two shots would be just fine. Thanks!"


	15. Nothing in His Life Became Him like the Leaving It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from the past.

_London, England:_ _May, 1986_

Sherlock spent all afternoon making the cutlass. He found a picture of the pirate sword in a volume of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ that lined his mother's study. Then, he traced the exact shape onto a piece of paper and retraced it onto some cardboard he'd found in the cellar. Holed up in his bedroom so that no one would see him, Sherlock used his father's box cutter (which he'd stolen) to painstakingly cut out the shape of the sword. He had just finished coloring it in with markers when he heard the familiar tones of his eldest brother reverberating from downstairs.

Sherlock leapt up from his work and raced down the stairs, cutlass in hand. Sherrinford was home from university for the summer! It had been ages since he'd been home, it felt like, although Sherlock supposed they had just seen each other for Easter. Sherlock dashed into the kitchen, where his family was gathered, and hugged his brother around the middle.

"Sherlock! What do you have there?" Sherrinford exclaimed. "Is that a sword?"

"Not just a sword," Sherlock said. "It's a pirate cutlass. It's a type of sabre."

"Sherlock, let your brother breathe," his mother said. "Does anyone besides Sherry want coffee? Mycroft? Thomas?"

"I do," Sherlock said.

Mycroft snorted and rummaged in the refrigerator for milk. "The day Sherlock drinks coffee is the day the world ends. He has enough energy as it is."

"Just pray he never starts smoking, _Mike_ ," their mother said pointedly.

Mycroft groaned. "Mummy, I am not a child."

Sherlock poked at Mycroft with the cutlass and Mycroft batted it away.

"It's so nice seeing my three boys together," Sherlock's father commented from the kitchen table.

People always said that although Mycroft and Sherlock didn't look much alike, they could tell the two were brothers when Sherrinford was with them. Sherrinford was a mixture of the two, with narrow blue eyes and a mop of dark curly hair like Sherlock, but the nose and smile of Mycroft.

"So how'd you manage to make such an excellent cutlass?" Sherrinford asked Sherlock, kneeling down so he was at Sherlock's face-level.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was easy. I just found a picture in the encyclopedia and copied it... I've decided that I'll become a pirate when I grow up."

"Ah! A worthy career goal. So what will your name be?"

"My name? It can't be Sherlock?"

Sherrinford grinned. "Obviously. Every pirate needs a good _pirate_ name."

"Oh..." Sherlock thought for a moment. "Er, I'll be Blackbeard! And you can be Redbeard."

"Yes! And Mycroft can be Peg Leg," Sherrinford said. He grabbed a spatula from the kitchen counter and pointed it at their mother. "Argh, scurvy maiden! Redbeard be here to steal your treasure!"

"That's not even pirate talk," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.

 

 

 _London, England:_ _September, 1994_

"Mummy says you're using drugs again."

Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow. "Oh. I didn't know you were home, Sherrinford." He dropped it back down and stared up at the canopy of his bed.

"Why, Sherlock?" Sherrinford sat down on the end of the bed. "You know how it hurts Mum and Dad."

Sherlock sighed. "It has nothing to do with that, Sherry."

"Then what does it have to do with?" Sherrinford's eyes, so like Sherlock's own, were boring into him.

"Stop looking at me." Sherlock covered his face with a pillow.

"Sherlock..."

"They help me think, okay?" His voice came out muffled. "I need them to think."

"You've always been smart. Since when do you need drugs to think?" Sherrinford asked gently.

Sherlock sighed heavily and lifted the pillow. "It helps me solve crimes. And I'm good at it, Sherry, I really am. And the drugs help me be _better_."

"I don't think that they do. I think they slow you down."

Sherlock looked away. "You wouldn't know.... Everyone wants me to go to uni next year like you and Mycroft did, and I don't want to."

Sherrinford seemed unfazed by the non-sequitur. "You don't _have_ to do anything, Sherlock. Well, except not use drugs. I strongly encourage you to not use drugs."

Sherlock didn't respond.

Sherrinford sighed. "Listen, Sherlock, I have something to ask you. Mycroft and I have been discussing this, and we think that maybe you'd do well working with us instead of going to uni."

Sherlock sat up. "You want me to be a _spy_? For MI6?"

Sherrinford laughed. "Well, it's not quite that glamorous, but yes, essentially." He stood and headed for the door. "You don't have to tell me right away. Just think on it."

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Sherrinford turned around. "The offer only stands if you're clean."

 

 

 _Belgrade, Serbia:_ _November, 1996_

His name was Bojan Kovac, and he was currently a threat to British national security. He had been sending death threats to various government officials over the past three months, death threats that, as a major arms dealer, he actually had the potential to carry out.

Sherrinford and Sherlock had been hiding out in a motel in Belgrade for the past two weeks. It was supposed to have been an easy mission, but Kovac was a slippery man who hid his tracks well. It was technically Sherlock's first actual mission, but the excitement had waned with each passing day with no Kovac.

They hadn't even been doing anything except for watching Serbian telly when the gunfire started, bullets smashing through the window. Suddenly, Sherrinford was shouting into his walkie-talkie for backup, and Sherlock was pressed against the wall, a gun in his hands, not even hearing what Sherrinford was telling Mycroft.

"I'm going across the hall," Sherrinford said when he set down his walkie-talkie, his hair sticking out wildly. "I'm going to try to trip them up before they reach our floor. Stay here and lock yourself in the bathroom."

"Like hell I will," Sherlock retorted. "You can't leave!"

"Mycroft's orders," Sherrinford said. "I trust him."

"Sherry, wait!"

But Sherrinford was already creeping across the room toward the door. That was how the brothers ended up in motel rooms on opposite sides of the building. They fired wildly into the hallway as armed men, what seemed like droves of them, stormed into the motel. The other M16 agents charged in just moments later,  gunning down Kovac's remaining men.

Once he was sure the gunfire had stopped, Sherlock emerged from his motel room, shaking violently. He shrank back from the bloody mess sinking into the cheap hallway carpeting. "Oh, God... Where's Sherrinford?" He asked a female agent who had emerged from the adjacent room.

Sherlock didn't like the look on her face. He didn't like it at all.

 

 

 _London, England:_ _January, 1997_

The list of prescription drugs Sherlock was taking was long and boring. He much preferred cocaine, but the hospital tended to keep that away from drug addicts with recent histories of psychotic breaks.

Sherlock hadn't threatened any of the hospital staff in the past two weeks nor managed to smuggle any sharp objects onto his person, so he was finally permitted a regular room with regular walls, where he could wear somewhat regular clothing.

"Sherlock! It's Mum and Dad! We're here to see you!"

Sherlock stared out the window. He didn't feel like talking to his parents. He didn't feel like doing much of anything. The new drugs slowed him down. He hated the new drugs.

"Sherlock, dear... We've brought someone with us."

Sherlock finally turned to look at them. His parents. His parents and Mycroft. _Mycroft._ Mycroft with that bloody smug face and that fucking umbrella he'd started to carry and that--that--

_It's all your fault all your fault you fucking murderer_

Sherlock lunged at Mycroft. That got him another week in the padded room.

Then, Sherlock learned the nifty little trick of "deleting" things. Well, it wasn't really deleting, per se, more like _burying_. If he buried something very, very deep in his Mind Palace, it was almost like forgetting. It was almost like that thing had never happened. Well, good. He didn't want to remember these things anyway. Maybe he'd be able to exist in the same room as Mycroft if he didn't remember these things anymore. Maybe he could go to uni after he got out of this damned place, try to live like a normal human being.

Goodbye, MI6. Goodbye, Sherrinford. Goodbye, Redbeard.

 

 _London, England:_ _September, 2014_

Sherlock, in his Mind Palace. Mary just shot him _Mary John's Mary Mary Watson how could she John's Mary._ Sherlock, dying.

Redbeard. "They're putting me down, too."

And when he woke up, he remembered.

Sherrinford.

He waited for the anger, but there was none. All that was left was a sad kind of emptiness.

 

 

 _London, England:_ _January, 2015_

Mycroft was going to die, and Sherlock _cared_ , damn it, he _cared_ , and he couldn't do anything about it.


	16. Can the Devil Speak True?

Moriarty's people were falling into the water with loud splashes, one by one, but not quickly enough. John hovered behind a trash can. He couldn't bear to think of what Moriarty was doing to Sherlock right now, what he might have in store for Fiona and Mycroft...

So John sprinted to the bank and dove. The icy Thames sent a shock through his body.

 

 

Sherlock knew that someone would save Mycroft.

Sherlock knew that someone would save Mycroft because Mycroft was always okay.

Sherlock knew this even as a masked man entered the room on screen, even as the man extended a gun toward Mycroft.

Sherlock knew this even as he shouted at Mycroft, begged Mycroft to accept his forgiveness, told Mycroft that he loved him, too.

Sherlock knew this even as the man pressed down on the trigger, even as Moriarty began to laugh, even as the bullet sailed through the air, even as Mycroft's body jerked backward from the force.

Sherlock sank to his knees. Moriarty laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. :(


	17. Curses, Not Loud but Deep

John emerged from the Thames gasping, just inches from the boat. His entire body was numb and his clothes were waterlogged. Remarkably, his phone had survived the plunge, and was vibrating out of control in his pocket. He grasped the lip of the deck, nearly slipping back into the water, but kicked off his heavy shoes and managed to pull himself onto the boat. With a shivering hand, John read the text message through the wet screen.

_John, it's Mrs Holmes. Fiona is safe with me. Please keep an eye on my sons. XX_

John dropped the phone onto the deck. The screen cracked, but John didn't care. Hot tears pricked his eyes and a surge of relief flowed through his stomach.

"Oh, God. Fiona," he whispered. "Thank you, God."

He straightened himself up when he heard Sherlock's anguished cry.

"Sherlock!" John gasped. John quickly lunged into the interior of the boat and followed the sound of Sherlock's sobs.

In the room up the stairs, Sherlock was kneeling in front of a laptop. Moriarty was bent over him and had a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock did not seem to notice the touch. Moriarty's other hand was occupied with a small handgun. Neither of the men faced John. John crouched behind one of the chairs and lined up his gun with Moriarty's back, praying it would still work after it's submersion in the Thames. If John missed, did Sherlock have his gun? Moriarty must have taken it at some point, or surely Sherlock would have used it. All right, then. It was up to him.

"I told you, Sherlock. I don't mess around, my dear." Moriarty's hand rubbed circles on Sherlock's back.

John cringed. He lifted his gun and inhaled. He would have one chance. He fired.

 _Click_.

Oh, fucking son of a bitch. What kind of soldier doesn't count how many rounds he has left?

Moriarty whirled around and grinned, holding his arms out in surprise. "Oh! _Oh!_ John Watson! Look, Sherlock, it's your pet! My old puppet! I didn't think he'd actually show up, but I am _glad_ he did!" Moriarty clapped his hands together and brought them to his chin, looking like an excited child on his birthday.

Sherlock's head snapped over his shoulder. His eyes were bright and wet. _"John!"_

Moriarty flicked his gun at John's face. "Look at him, Sherlock. _Look at him_. He's dripping wet like a dog. Are you going to shake for us, Watson? Please do." He chuckled. "What poor taste you have, Sherlock. John Watson's one of the ordinary ones. And you let him _defile_ you like that. I've got to say, you could have done much better."

Sherlock stood and looked at John pleadingly. "John... Why are you here?"

John growled. "Vatican fucking cameos."

For a second, Moriarty looked confused. Then it was difficult to see his expression, for in one swift movement, Sherlock had swept the laptop off the table and sent it crashing down onto Moriarty's head.

Moriarty went sprawling. Sherlock used the keyboard, which had split apart from the top half of the laptop, to deflect the shards of screen that burst out from the impact. At the same moment, John sprung forward and landed centimeters from where Moriarty lay groaning. John grasped the man's fist and pointed the gun toward the wall, attempting to wrestle it away from him. Moriarty shrieked and tried to roll over, but Sherlock was there to aim a sharp kick in his ribs. Moriarty wailed and released the gun.

John staggered to his feet and aimed the gun at the prone body before him. "You know, I normally believe in allowing the police and court and whatnot to deal with all of this, but I'm going to sleep easy tonight."

John fired once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times. He didn't know when he had started shouting, but expletives were flying from his mouth that would have made Mrs. Hudson faint.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed at last. "That's enough!"

John's chest heaved. His hands clutched the gun like it was his lifeline. He stopped shooting and looked at Sherlock. "What, you want a go?"

"John, he's dead."

John looked down at what had been James Moriarty. Trickles of blood were slowly running down the carpet.

"Where are his cronies?" Sherlock asked breathlessly. "Why aren't they coming?"

"I think Scotland Yard took care of them," John said, suddenly feeling blank. "They were doing some nice work before I dove in the Thames."

"John." Sherlock's eyes were wide. "What are we going to do about Fiona? Without him to tell us--"

"Your mum has her," John said. A thought struck him.  _Mycroft._ "But... oh, no..."

"John..."

"Sherlock, what about Mycroft? Oh, God, I'm an idiot." John collapsed into one of the chairs and put his hands over his face.

"John, Mycroft is already dead."

John looked up, startled. "What?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Please don't make me say it again."

For some reason, John was afraid to make physical contact, even though he thought it might be the right thing to do. Was it because Sherlock had lost someone today, and John had not? Was it guilt? No, John could never feel guilty for still having Fiona. But still... Something felt inadequate about a hug. And John certainly couldn't think of anything to say. So he just stood across from Sherlock, waiting for the police to come on board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a BAMF.


	18. Raze out the Written Troubles of the Brain

"Burn Moriarty's body," Sherlock hissed to Lestrade. "Destroy it so he never comes back again."

They were back on land, a flurry of ambulances and police cars surrounding them like a circle of covered wagons. John was sitting in the back of an ambulance. He had changed into hospital scrubs and was wrapped in two shock blankets against the cold, . One of the blankets belonged to Sherlock, who had draped it over John's trembling shoulders without comment. John felt his body temperature slowly rising, the shivers waning.

"I think John did enough to ensure that," Lestrade said gruffly. He raised an eyebrow. "But as it was self defense, I don't think you'll have anything to worry about."

"Obviously," Sherlock hissed. "But I don't care about that. I just want you to burn the body. Promise me, Lestrade!"

"I can't promise that."

Sherlock huffed and stared out into the Thames with damp eyes.

Lestrade raised a hand as if he wanted to pat Sherlock's shoulder, but then thought better of it and left it hanging in the air. "Sherlock, we're trying to locate your brother," he said. "And I will make sure to personally notify you when we do. I... I'm sorry, mate. I truly am."

Sherlock didn't respond. He crossed his arms. The snowy air blew through his curls.

"Listen, mate," Lestrade told John. "You should probably take Sherlock home, yeah? Maybe have his mum meet you there with the baby? I think it's important to be with family in a time like this."

John emitted a shaky breath and whispered, "Greg, Sherlock's parents... have they been... notified?"

Lestrade nodded with a brief glance at Sherlock, who pretended he wasn't listening.

"Ah, okay. That's... that's good. Also, Greg, I don't have to go to hospital again, do I?"

Lestrade sighed. "Look, John, all the paramedics think you ought to go. They're worried about the hypothermia and the bullet wound and all that. But I say, it's up to you. You're the doctor. And it looks to me like your lips aren't blue any more."

"I want to go home," John answered immediately. "You don't know how much I want to see her. Fiona, I mean. God..."

Lestrade nodded. "I know, mate. I've got kids. They live with their mum, of course, but I miss them like hell when they're gone."

John smiled weakly. "Well, thanks, Greg. We'll stop in tomorrow for more statements, yeah?"

Lestrade clapped John on his good shoulder. "Keep him safe."

 

John didn't want to face Sherlock's parents. It was only the thought of seeing his daughter that kept him from sprinting back down the stairs of Baker Street. As it turned out, Sherlock and John made it there before the Holmes parents did. John busied himself making enough tea for at least a dozen people, unsure of what else he should be doing. Sherlock just stared out the window.

John heard a baby's cry from the stairwell, and all thoughts of hesitation vanished. He rushed into the hall. Mummy Holmes presented him with Fiona with tears in her eyes, and John couldn't be sure that he wasn't crying, too. John cradled his daughter, taking her into the flat, and collapsed into his chair with her.

"I'm never letting you go again," he whispered. "I promise you that, Fiona."

Sherlock's mother and father were talking to the detective. There were tears and hugs from his parents, and an underlying hostility from Sherlock. John decided to give the family some privacy. He took Fiona into his old bedroom upstairs and rested them both on the bed.

"Fiona, you do not know what Daddy's been through these past few days," John said. Fiona looked up at him with her clear blue eyes. "You know, I should probably be in hospital, but I couldn't wait to see you again, love. I was so worried... so worried."

John rested Fiona on his lap and peeled back his shirt (still the pale green hospital outfit) to check on the bullet wound. The paramedics had patched him back up on the bank of the Thames, lathering him in disinfectant, so he hoped that it would be fine for now. He could have it looked it sometime tomorrow maybe, after they went to Scotland Yard.

The weight of the day (the week, the month, the bloody _year_ ) set upon him, and he sank back into the headboard, eyes drooping.

"Fiona," he whispered. "I don't know if Sherlock's going to be okay. I'm worried about him. He tends to do... bad things when he's upset." He tickled his daughter under the chin. "I never thought he'd be much for kids, but I think he's quite fond of you. Maybe you can help me get through to him, yeah?"

Fiona responded by sighing sleepily and closing her eyes. John closed his eyes, too, and sank into a dead sleep.

 

John awoke to a darkened room and the weight of someone sitting on the bed.

"Sherlock?" John asked. Fiona was still in his lap, her hand in her mouth.

"Can I stay with you tonight, John?" Sherlock's voice was raspy.

"Of course, Sherlock. Damn, I wish I had a crib here, though. Babies aren't really supposed to sleep in beds."

Sherlock stood. "I have one. I made it in case you would ever want to stay over here with Fiona."

John was taken aback. "You _made_ a crib?"

"It's in my room now because I was building it in there and didn't want Mrs. Hudson to disturb it. We can move down there, if you'd like."

John gaped. "Er, yes, yes. Sure, Sherlock."

They quietly walked downstairs and into Sherlock's bedroom. Sure enough, a wooden crib was pushed up to the wall next to the wardrobe. There was a tiny mattress with a pink sheet lying inside.

"Wow, Sherlock. I can't believe you built this. This must have been before... everything happened." John ran a finger over the smooth headboard. "This is incredible."

Sherlock shrugged.

John patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm going to go feed Fiona and then I'll be right back. Stay here, all right?"

Sherlock nodded.

When John returned, he placed Fiona in the crib. She snuggled into the mattress and gurgled softly.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, undressed except for his pants. He was looking up at the ceiling. John stripped off the scrubs and slid between the sheets.

"You going to lie on top of the blankets all night?"

Sherlock looked at John as if the doctor had appeared out of nowhere. "Oh. No, I suppose not." He shuffled in next to John and stared at him.

"You want to talk, Sherlock?" John took one of Sherlock's hands between his own.

"Talk, talk, talk. That's all my parents wanted to do, too."

"Well, sometimes it's good to talk."

Sherlock exhaled. "And sometimes it's good to _not_ talk."

John nodded. "Okay. That's fine, too. Just..." He hesitated.

"John, if you're going to lecture me about drugs, I suggest that you stop right now." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You have to admit that it's a valid concern."

"It's not. Stop it. Do you think I'd do that to you and Fiona?" Sherlock rolled onto his back and let go of John's hand. "I'm done with drugs."

"Okay, Sherlock. I believe you."

Sherlock clicked off the bedside lamp. The men were quiet for a few minutes. John felt himself sinking back into sleep.

"Thank you, John. You saved my life."

John started. "Huh?" he muttered sleepily.

"I know I didn't want you to follow me, but I wouldn't be here right now if you hadn't. So... thank you."

John blinked, shaking himself back into conciousness. "I love you, Sherlock. You know that."

"I know."

"Well, then you understand why I followed." John yawned. "Get some sleep. You need it."

 

John began dreaming of boats and rivers and chasing Sherlock. Sherlock's coat flapped behind the detective, and the man was always _not quite_ within John's reach. Moriarty's sick laugh echoed in John's mind, mixed with Fiona's cries. All of this melded with his Afghanistan nightmares, sand and guns and death. John twitched and rolled in bed. He wasn't aware of the soft kiss Sherlock pressed to his forehead that finally stilled him and ceased the dreams.

Sherlock did not sleep.


	19. Come What Come May

Sherlock was not in bed when John woke up around eight in the morning. John's thoughts immediately went to drugs; he didn't care what Sherlock had promised last night. John scrambled out of bed and threw on his clothes in a hurry. Who could he call for help? Lestrade? Sherlock's mum? _Anderson?_ Even if Anderson wasn't an officer anymore, he did love his drugs busts...

Wait... John suddenly noticed that Fiona's crib was empty. John blinked. Surely Sherlock wouldn't bring Fiona to a drug den... Would he?

John warily walked through the kitchen to see Sherlock on the living room sofa wearing his blue robe, Fiona cradled in his arms. Sherlock's eyes were closed but something in his posture told John that he was awake.

"Er... Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, then narrowed. "John, I promised you! Have you no trust in me?"

"What?" John sat down next to him and rubbed his forehead. "How did you-- I wasn't thinking--"

"John, please don't make me explain every single deduction to you after all this time." Sherlock sighed. "And _please_ stop expecting me to leave here in search of needles and crack pipes."

"I wasn't!"

"Yes, you were. You have an obvious face, John, even to those who aren't geniuses. There's also the fact that you are fully dressed, yet haphazardly so, as if you were expecting the need to leave Baker Street in a hurry."

John rested his head in his hand. "So what _are_ you doing in here, then?"

"Fiona started fussing, so I brought her here so you could sleep," Sherlock said.

John pet the top of Fiona's head soothingly. "What about you? Have you slept?"

Sherlock stared glassy-eyed out the window. "No." He swallowed. "You were having nightmares last night."

"Oh... I'm sorry. I kept you awake? I've been told I can be a bit... thrashy."

Sherlock shook his head. "I wouldn't have slept anyway. They found Mycroft's body. Lestrade texted me an hour ago."

John stopped smoothing Fiona's hair. "Oh."

"The funeral will be three days from now. Will you come with me?"

"Of course, Sherlock."

Sherlock handed Fiona to John and stood up. He began pacing the living room floor. "To be honest, I don't want to go. But I missed Sherrinford's funeral and I shouldn't miss another. And damn it, I'm still angry with Mycroft. But I also feel terrible." He snorted. "I really should not have subscribed to sentiment. It's far more trouble than it's worth." His voice cracked slightly.

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't say that," John pleaded. "Not when you're just starting to become human. I am so sorry about Mycroft, but don't let it change you. Please, Sherlock."

Without looking at John, Sherlock paused in front of the fireplace. "I was hospitalized in a psychiatric ward after Sherrinford's death."

"Oh," John said. "I... oh. Oh, Sherlock."

"Since you were wondering how Mycroft and I came to be the way that we are. Were. Was." Sherlock collapsed into his chair and covered his face with his hands for a moment. "Besides, shouldn't potential flatmates know the worst about each other?"

"What do you mean?"

"Will you move in again, John?" Sherlock asked, suddenly forceful. "Wait, before you say anything... I want you to know that I am not going to be good at this." He waved his finger between them. "At us. At all this _sentiment_ in general. And I know you love me, and I certainly love you, but I want you to be absolutely certain you want to continue this before you respond. I--I am a difficult man." He inhaled. "And even if you decide that you would prefer not to carry on with this, I do not want to lose your friendship, John. You keep me human, whether as a friend or as anything more. So please... just think carefully."

John placed Fiona on the sofa and knelt by Sherlock's legs. "Are you bloody joking? Where is this coming from? Of course I want to be with you, you git. It's _you_ who needs to be certain, because, well... Fiona and I are kind of a package deal now. Are you sure you want to live with a baby, Sherlock? You'll have to be careful with your experiments, and-- I'm not asking you to necessarily be a _parent_ , but--"

"I want to be," Sherlock interrupted. "A parent. To Fiona."

John squinted. "You do?"

Sherlock placed his hand flat over John's. "John, at your wedding I promised that I would do anything for the three of you. I understand that I did not fulfill certain facets of that promise, but Fiona was included in that. She's a part of you, John, and I love you, so I love her, too."

John stood. "Are you sure you understand the responsibilities, Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Of course I do. Have you forgotten I'm a genius?"

"A genius who doesn't know the earth revolves around the sun." John crossed his arms, but he couldn't help the goofy smile that was spreading over his face. "You're absolutely sure?"

"Shut up, John, before I change my mind. Fiona can stay, but maybe you can just live on the street outside. There are some rather roomy rubbish bins out there." Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and strode into the kitchen. "In all seriousness, you can move into my room, if you'd like, and once Fiona is old enough she can have the room upstairs." He whirled around. "Or we could even move, John. I don't care as long as you're there with me."

"I'm actually liking the sound of those rubbish bins."

Sherlock smirked, which for him was akin to hearty laughter. Still, there was a shadow in his face. John strode to Sherlock in the kitchen and wrapped the detective in his arms.

"Sherlock, I'm bloody sorry about how everything has gone to shit lately," he whispered into Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry about Mycroft, and I wish we could have done something. I'm sorry about Mary. But I will say this: I will try my best to make our future better than everything that's happened before."

Sherlock nodded and shivered slightly. "I know you will, John."

Sherlock's phone _ding_ -ed. He pulled apart from John and checked the screen. "Lestrade again. He's wondering when we're going to come down for our statements."

John sighed. "Tell him we'll be there in an hour. I need to get ready."

Sherlock pocketed the phone and attempted a real smile. "I believe you promised something about the shower a while back? You seem to have forgotten your promise, John."

John laughed and shook his head. "All right, tell him we'll be there in _two_ hours."

 

_The past and present wilt — I have fill'd them, emptied them,_  
_And proceed to fill my next fold of the future._

_Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?_  
_Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,_  
_(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a_  
_minute longer.)_

_Do I contradict myself?_  
_Very well then I contradict myself,_  
_(I am large, I contain multitudes.)_

-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of "A Dagger of the Mind!" I want to thank everyone who has read, commented, and given kudos. Thanks for riding those waves of angst with me.
> 
> If you want more, I will likely write a sort of afterward to this once I'm finished with the school year. I think there is a lot more to be said about these darlings. :)
> 
> Note: All of the chapter titles in this fic come from Shakespeare's "Macbeth." I own neither "Macbeth" nor BBC's "Sherlock." Obviously.


End file.
